The Wrath of Heralds
by uhhright
Summary: You, the reader, are one of many survivors of a war that has almost single-handedly destroyed Earth by 2030. Content that life couldn't get any worse, you're suddenly thrust into a world where everyone speaks gibberish, nobody can understand you, and you're hearing a voice in your head that insists they can help. Suddenly, the streets of New York didn't seem so bad anymore.


Contrary to popular belief, the last few moments of life are incredibly peaceful.

With the sudden realization that you didn't have to suffer any more, you felt a weight of incredible proportions wrestled from your shoulders. All of the memories of your living years came flooding back all at once—the memories of your family, friends, past lovers, good times, bad times… that unspeakable time you ran over your best friend's cat…

And through all of that, you almost didn't realize that you were dying.

Not until your eyelids were already drifting to a close to signify your slowly depleting oxygen that had been expelled from your lungs under whatever the hell it was pressing against your chest like a ton of bricks.

You panicked, struggled against an already-there tug against your body that was dragging you toward a black hole that was colored... green?

Your body felt as if it was being ripped in-two, your skin felt as if it was burning off your fucking bones.

You screamed, but before you could try and struggle away yet again,

…everything went hot white behind your eyelids as the pain became overwhelming, and you didn't realize at that moment that your world was about to turn upside down.

...Your world had turned upside down.

There were two things you realized:

1: Under nothing but an uncomfortably scratchy blanket, you were naked. Completely naked. Nothing but your birthday suit.

2: There were voices that you could hear, but no language that you could understand. There were probably words somewhere in there, but it all sounded like yorvakd dorue djfivole perive aq qhghuio vbdjka to you.

You panicked, opening your eyes and recoiling away from hands that were touching you.

And suddenly you wished you hadn't done anything, because now you had to face the reality of your situation that, well, didn't seem like a reality at all.

The man above you paused and... wait, no. That... that wasn't a man at all. His ears were... and his huge eyes... the thinness of his hands against one of yours.

"What are you...?" you muttered incredulously, suddenly realizing how overwhelmingly rude you sounded.

He simply stared at you with a questioning, curious look in his eye, as if a horn had just grown out of your forehead.

"Jorven aoeiru fen alro?" he asked, and you shook your head, staring up at him with a furrowed brow and a frown.

He called over someone, and you couldn't help the barking, disbelieving laugh that erupted from your chest at the sight of some medieval-looking woman with short hair and some deep scars adorning her face. Well, she was pretty, you had to give her that.

"Okay, what in the hell is going on? This isn't funny anymore. I don't know what kind of LARP this is, but I don't wanna be a part of it," your voice had slowly risen with each word that was spoken, panic completely overwhelming your tone.

She sauntered over, muttered something to the… elf, and wrenched your hand away from your body.

"Aroeni torqa." The glare that she was giving you was so full of malice and hatred you could have sworn it would make a grown man cry.

Ow. You hissed in pain as her hand tightened around your wrist, yanking even harder and causing you to fall forward on your forearm that wasn't preoccupied.

You hurried to cover yourself after your shitty ass robe had fallen open from your rough handling.

She reached for the strikingly-real sword sheathed on her hip, and your blood froze in your veins, heart pumping feverishly in your ears, and you suddenly, shamefully started pleading for your life.

"Please. Please, I—I don't know anything. I'm sorry. Just, please, please, don't kill me." Your voice had risen to a shrill cry as your eyes widened and you curled in on yourself, waiting for a death that never came.

It was at that moment you realized that this was real.

"[Name]," a light voice said, so far away you could barely discern what it said to you. "[Name], it's okay. Don't be afraid."

You rolled your eyes up to meet the woman's hard gaze, suddenly realizing you were crying as your tears wet the shitty robe you were wearing.

"Kenentah alro gored."

She stepped back into the shadows and you were left with the elf, whose too-large eyes were staring at you with that same innocent curiosity on his face.

He pointed to himself: "Solas."

He pointed to the woman barely visible in the dark: "Cassandra."

You pointed to yourself, hyper-aware of the gash on your palm leaking a… green smoke or something, sending an explosion of pain up your arm, through your shoulder, and down your spine, so fucking painful that it took your breath and made tears spring to your eyes. But you steeled yourself: "[Name]."

"I guess you understand that I have no idea what you're saying, huh?" You cocked your head at him with a disconcerted frown. "I'm lost. I have no idea where I am, and I'm terrified."

And you were. You could feel the muscles under your skin lock up to the point of hurting. The hairs on the back of your neck had long-been standing up. Fear seeped deep into your bones so strongly they actually started to ache. Your long-buried anxiety had risen to the surface yet again, squeezing your chest in a vice-like grip, causing a wave of nausea to rack your body, wetting your eyes and making your mouth water.

Solas reeled back as you hunched over, your chest convulsing in dry heaves, eventually emptying the contents of your stomach.

"Eugh!" you yelled, spitting out the disgusting taste in your mouth. It tasted like chalky cough medicine, so drying and sickening you had no choice but to gag again. You screwed your face up in a scowl, desperately wiping your tongue against the scratchy material of your robe. "What in the fuck is that stuff?!"

A glass vial was pressed to your lips and you immediately turned away, not ready to experience that horrible flavor again.

"They want you to drink. It will help you heal faster," that faraway voice spoke yet again and, against your better judgement, you felt you had no choice but to comply.

You tilted your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as the liquid was poured into your gaping mouth. This concoction tasted minty, and you smacked your lips together to get used to the texture of it.

"A healing potion. The last one they gave you is in a puddle on the ground."

"Why do I need—"

"Burns all over, scars on places you let no one see, a darkness swallowing you whole, waiting, watching, wanting…!"

"Stop—" You placed your hands over your ears, denying the voice any further intrusion into the deep recesses of your mind.

"No… Please, let me in. Let me in… I'm trying to help! I don't want you to hurt. I could feel it, barely, under the brightness that shields you—shields your pain. But your pain is stronger. Let me help…"

You let out a strangled cry as the same electrifying pain in your hand flared again, multiplying ten-fold.

… You couldn't really remember anything after that.

A voice woke you up, still speaking the language with no words you could understand, frustrating you to no utter end.

Maybe if I just don't open my eyes… you thought to yourself, perfectly content with laying there in what felt like actual clothing, yet still feeling the scratching of your robe against the skin of your arms and legs.

They had given you simple undergarments, thank god. A thin tank and equally thin (what you could only describe as) leggings reaching just under your knees, both in the same material as your robe. Obviously made for the poorer people in town.

You were being hauled up under the direction of some girl Solas had whispered to you as Leliana.

You couldn't understand the words Cassandra was saying, shockingly enough, right? Nothing except another name: Justinia, you recalled? Her name had been said so many times it sounded like: Blah blah Justinia blah Justinia blah blah Justinia, Justinia blah, Justinia, Justinia, Justinia.

And from the way they had been glaring at you the whole time, you noticed through your lapses of consciousness, you seemed to be connected to her somehow.

Did they think that was your name? Were you being pegged as someone else?

And frankly, none of the options you thought up—whether being connected to her or being mistaken for her—bode well for you.

Poor you had to rely on Cassandra to help you walk, being too weak to do much of anything besides think. As you walked to the pace of her steps, you realized that everything hurt, most notably your skin. It burned under the fabric rubbing roughly against it—your stomach, arms, thighs, back burned, as if you had been lying in a fireplace for three whole days. You winced when she shifted your arm slung across her shoulders, moving to wrap one of hers around your back, muttering angrily under her breath, and you wearily tilted your head up to look at her, hyper-aware of the height difference the two of you shared.

She was all muscle, yet shapely like a woman, even through her armor (that you now realized was one hundred percent real). The tanned skin of her face was screwed up into an overall scowl. She was really pretty. Nothing like you had seen in the girls back home, completely and wholly fake. Even before… you shook your head. No need to dwell on what couldn't be changed.

"Berqi nowt bnsjkls gjiojgdl…" Cassandra's voice had slowly faded into gibberish as you saw it for the first time.

"Holy fucking shit," you breathed, taking in the overwhelming fact of being in a completely different world.

You could feel it: the air was different, digging at your skin as if it knew you weren't supposed to be there. The overwhelming scent of smoke and iron and burning flesh and you gagged, pressing a palm to your mouth. The death. It was nothing like what you had experienced at your world, even with the bodies piling on the streets of New York, your friends among them.

No. You refused to think about it—about all of the death in your world. Because nothing prepared you for this.

Almost on cue, the pain in your hand flared yet again, but this time you would have gladly taken the ten-fold calculation you had previously thought up. The gash in your hand lit up a bright green, and if it wasn't the pain that brought you to your knees, the blinding color shining in your face would've.

Cassandra joined you on the ground, bending down onto one knee. She pointed to the gaping green hole in the sky, then pointed to your hand, her words unable to be translated, yet the distraught tone of her voice shed new light to her words.

You were… connected to that thing in the sky. It was a part of you now. It would explain why both your hand and that thing were glowing green.

Maybe it was that thing that brought you here.

Maybe it was that thing that could bring you back home.

You pulled yourself onto your feet and started walking, albeit shakily, in front of Cassandra. You could feel her hand lightly fisting the hood of your robe, ready to yank you back should you do anything crazy.

Then you turned around, nearly running into her as you suddenly stopped in your tracks. You pointed to the hole in the sky, to yourself, then made a walking motion with your hands. "I need to get to that thing before—" you swiped a hand across your throat and let your head loll to the side, resting it against your shoulder, "—I die."

You looked at her expectantly, and she simply narrowed her eyes at you and tugged you by the arm to walk beside her. You had to skip between strides to keep her from ripping your arm off.

Oh no. You gave her the wrong signal.

"Wait, no—"

You had just fought demons. Tumbled from a rickety stone bridge and had to fight demons. Then you had to close what that voice in your head said was called a rift, and it really hurt. But, then thing was: you didn't know how to fight. Even with the War happening in your world, you had never been taught how to throw punches or shoot a gun or handle—what you had strapped to your back at the moment—a bow. In your word, you had always been a runner, gathering supplies when necessary and warning the others in your group whenever danger neared them. Other than that? No combat experience whatsoever.

If it weren't for saintly Cassandra, you would not have been standing there, being yelled at by a man Cassandra had called Roderick. He had a title in there somewhere. Chancellor, was it? At least that word was the same in both of your languages.

You turned around to throw a confused look at Solas, who simply stood there, staff perched a few inches away from his back by… oh dear god… magic. You had seen it. Ice and fire and electricity shooting from the glowing orb wedged between wooden claws at the tip of said staff. It was so crazy. He caught your eye and gave a slight shake of his head in warning, as if to say, 'Please keep your mouth shut.'

You turned back to the Chancellor, who was currently arguing with a perturbed Cassandra, and you subconsciously took a step back. It shocked you, yet it didn't at the same time, at how terrified you were in this new world. How your self-confidence had completely drained and withered to nothing in your ever-constricting chest.

Panic attack.

You hadn't had one in years.

Cassandra then shook you, produced a piece of parchment and what looked to be a pen, and began sketching out a… plan, you guessed?

She drew a church or something at the top of the paper, a mountain on the lower right-hand side, and a group of poorly-drawn soldiers (points for the swords and shields, Cassandra) on the lower left.

Soldiers.

Soldiers meant protection.

Protection meant you could survive this.

You quickly pointed to the soldiers, tapping the parchment with more force than necessary. She looked at you, looked to Leliana who, to your knowledge, had suddenly appeared in your field of vision, then said something to everyone.

You shut everyone out by that point. What was the purpose in listening to something and/or someone you couldn't understand?

You had been given actual clothing. Like, the kind of clothing in which you had to take measurements, made of some comfortable cloth that didn't feel like someone had molded sandpaper into a top and pants. You felt like you weren't a dirt pile walking. You smelled of lavender body wash instead of sweat and dirt and the tangy iron scent of blood; your hair wasn't matted down by your own filth anymore. You actually felt like a person for the first time since you had arrived in this strange world.

You slowly sat up, feeling the muscles in your arms ache in over-exertion. A letter crumpled under your palm, and you lifted it up with a curious lilt of your eyebrow.

I guess everyone got the memo, you thought as you quickly unfolded the letter.

The artistic skills were… less than average, you had to admit, but the image of you standing before a huge monster with a sword in hand made you chuckle. And the name at the bottom—Varric—made it even more endearing.

"You're a hero to the people of Haven." The voice was so close to your ear you swatted your hand and shifted to your other side, falling onto your elbow on the bed. "No, it's okay. Don't be afraid. You can't see me. I'm here, but you can't see me."

"Why?" you inquired, eyes flickering warily around the small hut.

"I haven't allowed you to," the voice simply said.

Hearing it up close, you were sure it was a male voice that had been speaking to you all that time.

"Who are you…?"

"I can't answer that. Must go. You have a guest. We'll talk later."

And the eyes that you felt digging into you were gone, just as a knock on your door resounded within the small confines of your… house. You wouldn't allow this to become your home. You had a home that you needed to get back to as soon as possible, before your world fell apart. You had to see it—see your friends—one last time.

The door swung open and in walked an elf carrying a crate full of… something. It looked like a bunch of plants where you were sitting. She blanched, said something you still didn't understand, sat the crate down on a table, and fell to her knees, her arms outstretched before her.

She then seemed to be begging. To you. Pleading. To little ol' you.

Oh no.

What in the fuck was happening?!


End file.
